38
Max ought to be dead.
Every conscious moment for days (or was it weeks?) he had wished that he was dead, as long as death provided relief. But none of those moments could have lasted very long. He couldn’t swear that he’d been conscious at all—they might only have been different parts of a dream that he couldn’t escape. He’d accepted the fleeting instants as slivers of reality because they’d been filled with excruciating pain.
Maybe they were dreams of Hell.
His ribs were forced to lift anvils with each breath, a nearly impossible effort of will from a body whose muscles had been cruelly stripped away.
With consciousness came pain: the spike-through-the-eye headache; the throat clogged by a wedge of cut glass; eyes and nose afire as if he’d snorted horseradish. Sharp things dug int
